


Deep-Fried Super-Spy

by TheGreatCatsby



Category: All-New X-Factor, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: crackfic, fast food restaurant au, well more like spy mission for all new x factor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatCatsby/pseuds/TheGreatCatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How long does it take you to put together a sandwich?" </p>
<p>Serval Industry's X-Factor team has to go undercover...in a fast food restaurant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep-Fried Super-Spy

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely my sister's fault.

“This is below me,” Pietro said, folding his arms against his chest. “This is below all of us. Even Gambit.” 

“Hey!” 

“It's only for a week,” Lorna said, holding out a red apron. “If that. If the manager shows himself and turns out to be the guy Snow thinks he is, we'll be able to get out even faster.” 

“And if he doesn't show up?” Pietro asked. “Can't we just send in Remy alone? Or with Danger and Warlock?” 

“I dunno if you noticed,” Remy said, “but Warlock and Danger are robots, and that's weird even for fast food.” 

“Well, you'd be fine on your own,” Pietro said. “You like to cook.” 

“Real food,” Remy said, narrowing his eyes at Pietro. 

“Fine,” Pietro said, snatching the apron from Lorna's hands. “But I'm not happy about it.” 

“No one cares,” Remy said. 

“Fuck you,” Pietro snapped, before turning and stalking out of the room. 

**

“Welcome to McDonald's,” the bored manager, a short older woman named Sandra, droned at them. “We value our customers more than anything, and the customer's happiness is paramount to our work here. This way you'll notice the deep friers, where we make our french fries. Across from that we have the assembly line, where you will assemble our sandwiches. Which of you have been assigned as a line cook?” 

“Me and him,” Remy said, gesturing to Doug, who looked completely perplexed by everything he saw. Remy, on the other hand, looked vaguely horrified. 

“Right,” Sandra muttered. “Back there we have our grill, where we make the patties. And over there is the drive through.” 

“I want drive through,” Lorna whispered to Pietro. “Having a wall between myself and other people sounds nice.” 

“And up here are the registers,” Sandra continued. “Whoever works up here will work alongside me.” 

“Do you have any other employees?” Doug asked. 

“You replaced them,” Sandra said. 

“Great,” Pietro said. 

“We open in half an hour,” Sandra told them. “So get everything ready.” 

“Is that it?” Lorna asked. “Is that the training?” 

“Yup,” said Sandra. 

It was 5:30am. 

**

“I don't think it's actually legal ta have us all working more than twelve hours,” Remy said. “Or is it? Also I like grease and this is a lot of grease.” He glanced at the patties sizzling on the grill, as if afraid they'd explode. 

“Lorna,” Doug called, “are we sure this was the right way to infiltrate the company?” 

“I'm sure,” Lorna said, passing a drink out the window. “Don't worry about it.” 

“I'm a bit worried,” Doug said, leaning away from the bubbling oil of the deep friers. 

Up front, Pietro was glaring at his latest customer, a man with three children who was staring at the menu like it held the secrets to the universe. 

“Have you decided yet?” he asked, his voice barely concealing his frustration. One of his hands was tapping so quickly against the counter that it was actually a blur. 

“Hang on,” the man said. He frowned, tilted his head to the side, and then asked, “So the number six...” 

“Big mac with medium fries and a medium soda of your choice,” Pietro recited. “We-have-coke-fanta-sprite-rootbeer-dietcoke-water-milk-applejuice-coffee--”

“What?” the man interrupted, staring at him. 

Pietro took a deep breath and said, over enunciating each word, “We have coke...fanta....sprite...root beer...diet coke...water...milk...apple juice...coffee...espresso...and o-range juice.” 

The man nodded. “I think I'll take a number six and a diet coke.” 

“Great,” Pietro muttered, keying that into the computer. The screen froze and he hit the monitor with his hand. “These damned machines are glacial!” 

Sandra, who had been standing at the other register, came over and keyed in a few numbers, and the machine returned to its menu page. “You need to be patient with it,” she said, and walked away. 

Pietro keyed in the order again and asked, “Anything else?” 

The man turned to his children. “Yeah, what do you all want?” 

The little girl said, “Ummm....I want the chicken nuggets and....ummm.....uh.....what's that soda that I like?” 

“Dr. Pepper,” the father answered. 

“Are you sure?” the girl asked. 

“We don't have Dr. Pepper,” Pietro said. 

“Um...” the girl looked completely lost now. “Do you have...Mr. Pibb?” 

“No,” Pietro said. “We have coke, Fanta, Sprite--”

“Do you have orange soda?” 

“Yes,” Pietro sighed. “Do you want orange soda?” The girl nodded. 

The boys took just as long to figure out their orders, and when Pietro gave him the total, the man decided to count out the exact change. Pietro could've done that math in seconds, but the man took a full minute and a half to hand the money over. 

Still, it was a relief when he moved aside and no one was behind him. Pietro hated dealing with customers. Especially a lot of customers in a row. The morning rush had been hell.

“Be patient with them,” Lorna called. 

Pietro scoffed and turned towards the kitchen. “Can you guys hurry up?” 

“Food don't cook at super-speed,” Remy pointed out. 

“This,” Pietro said, “is a fast food restaurant.”

“Your definition of 'fast' and my definition of 'fast' are completely different,” Remy said. “Actually, your definition and the whole world's definition--”

“I get it,” Pietro snapped. “How long does it take to put together a sandwich, Doug?” 

Doug was still looking at the guides taped to the walls, a frown etched onto his face. “I've never worked in food service,” he said. 

“Oh, for the love of--” Pietro darted from his spot at the front and raced around the kitchen, grabbing the food that was already made and packing it into two large bags while muttering something about having memorized all the recipes in two minutes that morning, and getting the drinks. He re-appeared at the front with all of this in hand. “ThankyouforcomingtoMcDonaldsenjoyyourmealandhaveaniceday.” 

The man stared at him, blinking slowly. “What?” 

Pietro thrust the food into his hands. “Bye.” 

**

They had to do it all over again the next day. 

Then Lorna got a call and left during the morning rush. As Pietro was waiting for another order to be cooked, Sandra sidled up to him and said, “Have you ever considered a career in sports?” 

“Why would I do that?” he asked. 

“You're fast,” she said. “I mean, do you have a problem or...?”

“I'm efficient,” Pietro snapped. “Perhaps the rest of you should learn to be the same.” 

“You must not enjoy life much,” Sandra said, “always rushing through it like some kinda--”

“Pietro,” Lorna said, emerging from the break room, “can we, uh, talk?” 

“Yes.” Pietro rushed into the break room, slamming the door shut behind him. “What?” 

Lorna had her phone in her hand, and she looked like she was seconds away from hitting something. Or someone. “Snow made a mistake.” 

“What.” 

“He thought the guy he was after worked for McDonald's,” Lorna said. “And he does. But it isn't McDonald's fast-food. It's a company with the same name that sells hardware in Scotland.” 

“What,” Pietro repeated. 

“I know,” Lorna said, rubbing her temples. “So what do you--” The door opened and slammed shut, and Pietro was gone before she could finish saying, “want to do—damn it Pietro.” 

When she opened the door Sandra was standing there. “Your break is over,” she said. 

“Sorry,” Lorna said, “but I have to leave. Like, quit leave. And I'm taking all of your employees with me. Sorry, again.” 

Sandra just sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Every time,” she muttered before toddling away. 

Lorna almost felt bad. Almost.


End file.
